PS 
3535 
1405 
W5 


HJTLING  MOTHER. 


GRACE  -  S-  RICHMOND 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 

GIFT  OF 

THE  PIERCE  FAMILY 


THE  WHISTLING  MOTHER 


Books  by  the  Same  Author 


BROTHERLY  HOUSE 

BROWN  STUDY,  THE 

COURT  OF  INQUIRY,  A 

INDIFFERENCE  OF  JULIET,  THE 

MRS.  RED  PEPPER 

ON  CHRISTMAS  DAY  IN  THE  EVENING 

ON  CHRISTMAS  DAY  IN  THE  MORNING 

RED  PEPPER  BURNS 

RED  PEPPER'S  PATIENTS 

ROUND  THE  CORNER  IN  GAY  STREET 

SECOND  VIOLIN,  THE 

STRAWBERRY  ACRES 

TWENTY-FOURTH  OF  JUNE 

UNDER  THE  COUNTRY  SKY 

WITH  JULIET  IN  ENGLAND 


Copyright  by  American  Press  Association,  JV.  Y. 

YOUR  BOY,  IF  HE  IS  THE  RIGHT  KIND  OF  -A  BOY,  HAS  WORK 
TO  DO  THROUGH  A  LONG  LIFE.  NOTHING  WIIL  HAPPEN  TO 
HIM.  "A  MAN  IS  IMMORTAL  TILL  HIS  WORK  IS  DONE." 
THERE  ARE  EXCEPTIONS  TO  THIS  RULE,  AS  TO  ALL  OTHERS, 
BUT  THIS  IS  STILL  THE  RULE. 


THE 

WHISTLING 
MOTHER 

BY 

GRACE  S.  RICHMOND 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1917 


JJ8RARY 

UMTVERSIfY  OF 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
DOUBLED  AY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


copYRHnrr,  1917,  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


THE  WHISTLING  MOTHER 


THE  WHISTLING  MOTHER 

I  HAVE  the  greatest  mother  on  earth. 
I  can't  call  her  a  "little  mother," 
for   she's   five   feet   six   inches   tall, 
and  weighs  j  ust  exactly  what  she  ought  to 
according  to  the  table  of  weights.     If  she 
were  a  trifle  less  active  she  might  put  on 
too  much  'flesh,  but  she'll  never  keep  still 
long  enough  for  that.      I  always  enjoy 
having  her  along  on  any  kind  of  an  out- 
ing, for  she's  game  for  just  anything,  and 

3 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

awfully  good  company,  too.     In  fact,  she 
seems  more  like  a  vigorous  girl  than  any- 
thing I  can  compare  her  with.     And  I 
think  her  sons  are  mighty  lucky  chaps— 
especially  just  now  that  the  war  game's  on. 

Yes,  that's  a  picture  of  Mother;  neat 
little  holder  for  it,  isn't  it?  Yes,  I  know; 
she  does  look  interesting,  doesn't  she? 
She's  an  awfully  good  shot,  and  drives  her 
own  car,  and  rides  like  a  Cossack,  and  does 
a  lot  of  other  things — not  to  mention  mak- 
ing home — well — what  it  is.  I  suppose 
I'm  rather  braggy  about  her,  but  I  tell  you 
I  feel  that  way  just  now,  and  I'm  going  to 
tell  you  why.  .  .  .  She's  pretty,  too, 
don't  you  think  so  ?  I  thought  you  would. 

The  thing  that  started  me  off  was  Hoofy 
Gilbert  coming  across  the  dorm  hall  with  a 
letter  in  his  hand.  We  called  him  Hoofy 
because  he  hated  walking  so,  and  always 


THE      WHISTLING     MOTHER 

drove  his  big  yellow  roadster  from  one 
class  to  another,  even  if  it  was  only  a 
thousand  feet  straight  across  the  campus 
to  the  next  lecture.  Well,  Hoofy  came  in 
that  day — it  was  just  before  the  Easter 
vacation — looking  as  if  he  were  down  and 
out  for  fair.  It  turned  out  he'd  written 
home  about  enlisting,  and  he'd  got  back  a 
letter  from  his  mother,  all  sobs.  He  didn't 
know  what  to  do  about  it.  You  see  the 
fellows  were  all  writing  home,  and  trying 
to  break  it  gently  that  when  they  got 
there  they'd  have  to  put  it  up  to  the 
family  to  say  "Go,  and  God  bless  you!" 
But  it  was  looking  pretty  dubious  for 
some  of  my  special  friends.  Their 
mothers  were  all  right,  an  awfully  nice 
sort,  of  course,  but  when  it  came  to  telling 
Bob  and  Sam  and  Hector  to  enlist — they 
just  simply  couldn't  do  it. 


THE      WHISTLING     MOTHER 

Hoofy  said  he'd  got  to  enlist,  in  spite  of 
his  mother.  He  knew  it  was  his  duty,  but 
he'd  rather  be  shot  than  go  home  and  go 
through  the  farewells.  He  knew  his 
mother  would  be  sick  in  bed  about  it,  and 
she'd  cling  round  his  neck  and  cry  on  his 
shoulder,  and  he'd  have  to  loosen  her  arms 
and  go  off  leaving  her  feeling  like  that. 
And  his  father  would  look  grave  and  tell 
him  not  to  mind,  that  his  mother  wasn't 
well,  and  that  she  couldn't  help  it— and 
Hoofy  really  didn't  think  she  could,  being 
made  that  way.  Just  the  same,  he 
dreaded  going  home  to  say  good-bye — 
dreaded  it  so  much  he  felt  like  flunking 
it  and  wiring  he  couldn't  come. 

I  told  him  he  mustn't  do  that- — that  his 

mother  would  never  forgive  him,  and  that 

he'd  have  to  put  on  a  stiff  upper  lip  and  go 

through  with  it.     And  Hoofy  owned  that 

6 


THE      WHISTLING     MOTHER 

that  was  the  thing  he  was  really  afraid  of 
— that  his  upper  lip  wouldn't  keep  stiff 
but  would  wobble,  in  spite  of  him.  And  of 
course  a  breakdown  on  his  own  part  would 
be  the  worst  possible  thing  that  could 
happen  to  him.  No  potential  soldier 
wants  to  feel  his  upper  lip  unreliable,  no 
matter  what  happens.  It's  likely  to 
make  him  flinch  in  a  critical  moment, 
when  flinching  won't  do. 

I  was  looking  up  at  a  picture  of  Mother 
on  the  wall  over  my  desk  as  I  advised  him 
to  go  home,  and  he  asked  me  suddenly 
what  my  mother  wrote  back  when  I  told 
her.  I  hated  to  tell  him,  but  he  pushed 
me  about  it,  so  I  finally  got  out  her  letter 
and  read  him  the  last  paragraph — but 
one.  Of  course  the  last  one  I  wouldn't 
have  read  to  anybody. 

"It's  all  right,  Son,  and  we're  proud  as 

7 


THE     WHISTLING     MOTHER 

Punch  of  you,  that  you  want  to  be  not 
only  in  America's  'First  Hundred  Thou- 
sand,9 but  in  her  'First  Ten  Thousand.9 
We  know  it  will  stiffen  your  spine  con- 
siderably to  hear  that  your  family  are  be- 
hind you.  Well,  we  are — just  ranks  and 
rows  of  us,  with  our  heads  up  and  the 
colours  waving.  Even  Grandfather  and 
Grandmother  -are  as  gallant  as  veterans 
about  it.  So  go  ahead — but  come  home 
first,  if  you  can.  You  needn't  fear  we 
shall  make  it  hard  for  you — not  we.  We 
may  offer  you  a  good  deal  of  jelly,  in  our 
enthusiasm  for  you,  but  you  could  always 
stand  a  good  deal  of  jelly,  you  know,  so 
there's  no  danger  of  our  making  a  jelly- 
fish of  you — which  wouldn't  do,  in  the 
circumstances.  That's  rather  a  poor 
joke,  but  I'll  try  to  make  a  better  one  for 
you  to  laugh  at  when  you  come.  When 

8 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

shall  we  expect  you  ?  No — we  won't  have 
the  village  band  out,  and  will  try  not  to 
look  as  if  we  had  a  hero  in  our  midst,  but 
we  shall  be  awfully  glad  to  see  Jack  just 
the  same." 

When  I  looked  up  after  reading  this, 
Hoofy  looked  like  a  small  boy  who's  been 
staring  in  a  shop-window  at  a  fire-engine 
he  can't  have.  He  heaved  a  big  sigh,  and 
said:  "Well,  I  wish  my  mother'd  take  it 
that  way,"  and  went  out,  banging  the 
door  after  him.  And  I  got  up  and  went 
over  and  took  Mother  down  and  looked  at 
her,  and  said  to  her:  "You  game  little 
sport,  you — you'd  put  the  spine  into  a 
jelly-fish  any  time.  And  I  wouldn't  miss 
going  home  to  hug  you  for  good-bye  if  I 
knew  the  first  round  of  shot  would  get  me 
as  a  result." 

So  then  I  packed  up,  and  went  around 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

and  saw  the  dean,  who  assured  me  that, 
even  though  I  didn't  stay  to  finish  my 
Junior  year,  I'd  keep  my  place  and  get 
my  dip,  no  matter  how  long  the  war 
lasted.  Then  he  looked  over  his  spec- 
tacles at  me,  and  said  it  was  a  good  thing  I 
was  so  tall  and  slim — it  would  be  a  crack 
marksman  who  could  get  me,  or  even  tell 
me  from  a  sapling  at  five  hundred  yards ; 
and  we  grinned  at  each  other  and  shook 
hands.  Good  old  Hamerton — I  hope  he'll 
be  there  when  I  get  back.  Then  I  wired 
Mother  and  took  the  train  for  home. 
.  .  .  I  don't  know  why  I  always  write 
and  wire  Mother  instead  of  Father,  for  I 
think  a  lot  of  my  dad.  But  he's  pretty 
busy  at  the  office,  and  not  much  of  a 
letter-writer,  except  by  way  of  a  stenog- 
rapher. Mother  always  gives  me  his  mes- 
sages in  her  letters,  and  when  I  get  home 


10 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

he  and  I  talk  up  to  date,  and  then  Mother 
and  I  go  on  writing  again. 

Just  Mother  met  me  at  the  train — the 
girls  were  in  school,  and  Dad  not  yet 
home  from  the  office.  My  kid  brother 
hadn't  been  told,  for  fear  he'd  cut  school 
altogether.  Mother  had  the  roadster — 
and  it  was  shining  like  a  brass  band. 
She  looked  just  as  she  always  does 
— tailored  out  of  sight,  little  close  hat  over 
her  smooth  black  hair,  and  black  eyes 
shining  through  a  trim  little  veil  that 
keeps  all  snug.  No  loose  ends  about 
Mother,  I  can  tell  you,  from  the  top  of  her 
stunning  little  hat  to  the  toes  of  her  jolly 
little  Oxfords  over  silk  stockings  that 
would  get  anybody.  Even  her  motoring 
gloves  are  "kept  up,"  as  we  say  of  a  car. 
The  sight  of  her,  smiling  that  absolutely 
gorgeous  smile  that  shows  her  splendid 


THE      WHISTLING     MOTHER 

white  teeth,  made  me  mighty  glad  I'd 
come  home. 

Act  as  if  I'd  come  to  say  good-bye,  and 
could  stay  only  twenty-four  hours?  I 
should  say  she  didn't.  Kissed  me,  with 
her  hand  on  my  shoulder — glove  off — and 
then  said:  "Want  to  spin  round  the 
Circle,  Jack,  before  we  go  home  ?  By  that 
time  they'll  all  be  there." 

"Sure,"  I  said,  grinning  at  the  car. 
We're  not  rich,  and  I  don't  sport  a  car  to 
go  to  lectures  with,  like  Hoofy  and  a  lot  of 
other  fellows,  so  ours  always  looks  darned 
good  to  me  when  I  get  home.  Mother 
understands  how  I'm  crazy  to  drive  the 
minute  I  can  get  my  hands  on  the  wheel, 
so  without  an  invitation  I  put  her  into  the 
seat  beside  me  and  took  the  driver's  place 
myself.  She  settled  down,  same  as  she 
always  does,  and  remarked: 


12 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

"It's  always  so  good  to  have  you  drive. 
I  never  shall  get  quite  the  form  ,you 
have." 

Which  wasn't  true  a  bit,  for  she  drives 
just  as  well  as  I  do — she  ought  to,  I  taught 
her.  But  she  has  an  awfully  clever  little 
trick  of  making  a  fellow  feel  good,  and  I 
like  it — who  wouldn't  ?  A  lot  of  mothers 
never  lose  an  opportunity  to  take  a  son 
down  a  bit — though  I  don't  suppose  one 
would  whose  son  had  come  to  say  good- 
bye. That  same  sort  are  the  ones  to  weep 
on  their  boys'  shoulders,  though,  I've 
noticed. 

We  started  off  at  a  good  clip,  and  right 
away  Mother  said: 

"Now,  tell  me  all  about  it,"  exactly  as 
if  I'd  just  won  an  intercollegiate,  or  some- 
thing like  that. 

So  I  told  it  all  to  her,  and  was  glad  of 
13 


THE      WHISTLING     MOTHER 

the  chance.  I  hadn't  had  time  to  write 
much  about  it,  but  I  could  talk  fast 
enough,  and  I  did ;  and  she  listened — well, 
she  listened  just  exactly  as  another  fellow 
would.  I  mean — you  didn't  have  to 
colour  the  thing,  or  shave  off  anything, 
or  fix  up  any  dope  to  ease  it  for  her,  be- 
cause you  knew  she  wanted  it  straight. 
So,  naturally,  you  gave  it  to  her  straight — 
which  is  much  the  best  way,  if  people  only 
realized  it — for  it's  all  got  to  come  out  in 
the  end.  And  when  I  was  through,  what 
do  you  suppose  she  said  ?  Just  about  the 
last  thing  you'd  expect  any  mother  to  say: 

"It's  all  perfectly  great,  and  I  don't 
wonder  you  want  to  go.  Why,  if  you 
didn't  want  to  go,  Jack,  I  should  feel  that 
I'd  been  the  wrong  sort  of  mother." 

Now,  honestly,  do  you  blame  me?  I 
looked  down  at  her — I'm  a  good  deal 
14 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

taller  than  she  is — and  for  a  minute  I 
wanted  to  get  down  in  front  of  her  among 
the  gear-shifts  and  put  my  head  in  her 
lap.  But  of  course  I  didn't  do  anything 
so  idiotic  as  that.  I  just  laughed  and  said : 
"Not  you,"  —and  put  out  my  hand  and 
squeezed  hers — she'd  left  off  her  motoring 
gloves.  And  she  squeezed  back,  and 
looked  up  at  me  with  those  black  eyes 
of  hers — and  that  was  all  there  was  of  it, 
and  we  were  off  again  on  details,  with  no 
scene  to  remember.  A  fellow  doesn't 
like  scenes. 

Well,  then  we  got  back  to  the  house, 
and  everybody  was  there — except  Dad, 
and  he  came  soon.  There  were  my  two 
young  sisters,  Sally  and  Sue;  and  my 
kid  brother,  Jimmy — mad  as  fury  because 
he  hadn't  been  told ;  and  Grandfather  and 
Grandmother.  Everybody  was  all  smiles, 
15 


THE      WHISTLING     MOTHER 

and  nobody  even  suggested  that  the  time 
was  short — which  it  blamed  was.  Dad 
came  in  and  shook  my  hand  off,  and  we 
settled  down  to  talk. 

Pretty  soon  there  was  dinner,  a  per- 
fectly ripping  dinner,  with  everything  I 
like — including  tons  of  jelly,  at  sight  of 
which  I  grinned  at  Mother  and  she 
grinned  back — if  you  can  call  her  gor- 
geous smile  a  grin.  After  dinner  the  lights 
were  put  on  and  we  had  some  music,  as  we 
always  do  when  I'm  home — little  family 
orchestra  with  two  fiddles,  a  flute,  my 
mandolin,  and  the  piano,  and  I  noticed  we 
didn't  play  any  but  the  jolliest  sort  of 
things.  Then  Dad  and  I  sat  down  again 
on  the  big  couch  in  front  of  the  fireplace  to 
smoke  and  talk,  with  the  kids  hanging 
round  till  long  past  their  bed-time.  I 
went  up  with  Jimmy,  my  twelve-year-old 

16 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

brother,  when  at  last  he  was  ordered  off  to 
bed,  and  told  him  a  lot  of  yarns  and  made 
him  laugh  like  everything — which  was 
rather  a  triumph,  for  I'd  been  afraid  his 
eyes  were  a  bit  bleary. 

When  I  came  back  everybody  had 
cleared  out  except  Mother.  My  heart 
came  up  in  my  throat  for  a  minute,  she 
looked  so  pretty  and  young  and  regularly 
splendid,  there  by  the  fire.  I  said  to  my- 
self: "I  don't  believe  I  can  stand  a  heart- 
to-heart  talk — and  not  break.  But  I've 
got  to  go  through  with  it — and  I  will,  if  it 
takes  a  leg!" 

Well — I've  always  called  her  my 
whistling  mother.  It's  a  queer  title,  but 
it's  hers  in  a  peculiar  way.  She  always 
could  whistle  like  a  blackbird.  She  never 
did  it  for  exhibition;  I  don't  mean  that — I 
should  say  not — but  she  did  do  it  for  calls 
17 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

to  her  family,  in  the  woods  or  in  the  house 
when  there  were  no  guests  about ;  and  she 
often  whistled  softly  over  her  work.  Per- 
haps you  don't  think  that's  a  womanly 
thing  to  do — but  it's  better,  from  my 
point  of  view — it's  sporting.  For 
Mother's  got  something  of  a  temper— 
you'd  know  anybody  with  so  much  grit 
must  have  a  temper — and  lots  of  times 
when  she  wanted  to  be  angry,  suddenly 
she'd  break  out  in  a  regular  rag-time 
whistle,  and  then  laugh,  and  everything 
would  be  all  right  again. 

She  and  I  had  a  special  call  of  our  own, 
one  she'd  made  up.  I'd  know  it  anywhere 
in  the  world.  It  was  a  pretty  thing — just 
a  bar  or  two,  but  rather  unusual.  Well,  as 
I  came  in  the  door  that  night  she  looked 
round  and  gave  that  whistle.  I  thought 

for  a  minute  I  was  gone — but  I  bucked  up 

18 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

all  right  and  answered  it.  And  that— yes, 
it  was  actually  the  only  minute  she  gave 
me  that  evening  that  tried  my  pluck.  She 
began  to  talk  in  the  nicest,  most  matter- 
of-fact  way  in  the  world.  Not  too  awfully 
cheerful,  you  know,  overdoing  it,  but  just 
as  if  I'd  come  home  for  the  summer  va- 
cation, and  there  was  all  the  time  anybody 
needed  to  talk  things  over.  And  she  kept 
that  up.  The  only  thing  that  marked  the 
difference  was  that  her  hand  was  in  mine 
all  the  time  we  sat  there — but  that  was 
nothing  new,  either,  and  didn't  break  me 
up  at  all.  Maybe  you  could  imagine  how 
grateful  I  was  to  her.  Good  Lord — what 
if  I'd  had  to  face  a  mother  like  Hoofy  Gil- 
bert's! What  a  chance  to  put  a  fellow  on 
the  grill  and  keep  him  there — his  last 
evening  at  home !  No  wonder  Hoofy  had 
dreaded  to  go. 

19 


THE      WHISTLING     MOTHER 

She  kissed  me  good-night,  when  we 
broke  up,  in  just  exactly  the  old  way — no 
extras.  Oh,  maybe  I  did  put  a  little  more 
muscle  than  usual  into  the  hug  I  gave  her 
—Mother's  great  to  hug,  just  exactly  like 
a  girl — but  that  was  all.  We  parted 
with  a  laugh.  Afterward,  when  I  was  in 
bed,  with  the  firelight  still  flickering  on 
the  little  hearth  in  my  old  room,  she  came 
in,  in  some  kind  of  a  loose,  rosy  sort  of  silk 
thing,  and  her  long  black  hair  in  two 
braids,  and  stooped  down  and  kissed  me, 
and  patted  my  shoulder,  and  went  out 
again  without  saying  a  word. 
Maybe  I  didn't  turn  over  then  for  a 
minute,  and  bury  my  head  in  my  pillow 
and  have  it  out  a  bit.  But  that  didn't 
count,  because  nobody  saw. 

Next  morning  was  just  the  same;  and 
we  had  the  greatest  sort  of  a  breakfast — 

20 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

everything  tasting  bully,  the  way  it  does 
at  home,  you  know.  Then  I  went  down  to 
the  office  with  Dad,  and  saw  the  boys,  who 
all  came  round  and  gave  me  the  glad 
hand,  and  wished  me  luck.  Everybody  I 
met  on  the  street  wished  me  that,  except 
an  old  lady  or  two,  who  sighed  over  me — 
but  I  didn't  mind  them,  they  just  made 
me  want  to  laugh.  Then  home,  and 
lunch,  with  Mother  looking  ripping  in  the 
jolliest  sort  of  a  frock.  And  we  had  lots  of 
fun  over  a  letter  she'd  had  from  some  in- 
quiring idiot,  who  wanted  to  know  a  lot 
of  things  she  couldn't  tell  him;  and  she 
asked  our  advice,  and  of  course  we  gave  it, 
in  chunks.  In  the  afternoon  she  and  I 
took  another  spin  and,  as  I'd  quite  ceased 
to  fear  I  couldn't  see  it  through,  it  went  off 
mighty  well. 

I  was  a  little  owly  about  dinner,  though, 


21 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

because  soon  afterward  it  would  be  train 
time.  But  I  needn't  have  been.  My 
family  certainly  is  the  gamest  crowd  I 
ever  saw.  Even  Grandfather,  who  takes 
things  rather  seriously  as  a  rule,  told  a 
couple  of  corking  stories,  and  Grand- 
mother laughed  at  them  in  a  perfectly 
natural  way,  though  I  couldn't  help  sus- 
pecting her  of  bluffing.  Of  course,  when 
it  came  to  that,  I  knew  they  were  all 
bluffing.  But  I  tell  you,  a  fellow  wants  a 
bluff  at  a  time  like  that,  and  he  isn't  going 
to  misunderstand  it,  either — not  from  my 
sort  of  people. 

The  time  came  at  last  when  I  had  to  go 
up  to  my  room  and  get  my  stuff — and  I 
knew  what  would  happen  then.  Mother 
would  come,  too,  and  we'd  say  our  real 
good-bye  there.  That's  only  fair  to  her — 
and  to  me,  too,  for  I  wouldn't  miss  it,  even 

22 


THE      WHISTLING     MOTHER 

though  it's  the  real  crisis  in  every  going 
away.  But — that  night — well. 

Of  course,  you  know,  the  room's  full  of 
my  junk — things  I've  had  since  I  was  a 
little  chap,  all  the  way  up,  to  things  I  had 
in  my  Freshman  year  and  thought  were 
awfully  sporty — and  then  discarded  and 
brought  home  to  keep  in  remembrance  of 
my  foolish  youth.  I'm  pretty  fond  of 
that  old  room.  I  don't  need  to  explain 
that  much,  probably.  Any  fellow  would 
know. 

I  took  one  look  around  before  Mother 
came — I  thought  one  would  be  about  all 
that  would  be  good  for  me.  The  fire  was 
burning  rather  brightly  on  the  hearth,  but 
I'd  put  out  the  other  lights.  .  .  . 
Then  Mother  came  in. 

If  I  hadn't  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 

hands  I  shouldn't  have  known,  but  I  did 
23 


THE      WHISTLING     MOTHER 

happen  to  see  them  as  she  came  in.  They 
were  clinched  tight  at  her  sides,  just  the 
way  Fve  often  clinched  mine  before  I  went 
into  a  game  on  which  a  good  deal  de- 
pended. But  the  next  minute  her  arms 
were  round  my  neck  in  the  old  way,  and 
she  was  holding  me  so  tight  I  could 
hardly  breathe — and  I  don't  believe  she 
could  breathe  much,  either,  for  I  was  giv- 
ing her  back  every  bit  of  that,  with  some 
to  spare.  I  have  an  idea  she  was  saying, 
inside,  "I  won't — I  wont" — just  the  same 
way  I  was.  And  she  didn't — and  I  didn't 
— though  not  to  certainly  pulled  harder 
than  anything  I  ever  didn't  do  in  my  life ! 
She  didn't  keep  me  long.  Just  that  one 
great  hug,  and  something  else  that  goes 
with  it,  and  then  what  do  you  think  she 
said  ?  If  I'd  had  a  hat  on  I'd  have  taken  it 
off  to  her  at  that  moment.  She  looked  up 
24 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

into  my  face,  and  showed  me  hers,  all 
smiling,  and  not  a  tear  in  her  eyes,  and 
said: 

"  Jacky,  you're  a  brick  !" 

And  then  I  just  broke  out  into  a  great 
laugh  of  relief,  and  I  shouted : 

"Mother,  you  re  a  whole  brickyard!" 

And  we  went  downstairs  carrying  my 
luggage  between  us,  and  the  worst  was 
over,  and  the  thing  I  dreaded  hadn't  hap- 
pened. 

Perhaps  you  think  she  ought  to  have 
prayed  over  me,  and  given  me  a  Bible,  and 
a  lot  of  good  motherly  advice.  Don't  you 
think  it!  The  prayers  had  been  spread 
over  twenty-two  years  of  my  life,  and  the 
Bible  was  all  marked  up  with  her  mark- 
ings. As  for  the  good  advice — well — if 
she  hadn't  done  her  level  best,  long  before 
that,  to  teach  me  to  keep  clean,  and  think 
25 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

straight,  and  "hit  the  line  hard" — it  was 
too  late  to  begin  then.  But  she  didn't 
have  to  begin  then,  because  the  thing  was 
done,  as  well  as  any  mother  on  earth  could 
do  it.  And  if  you  think  that  little  thumb- 
marked  book  wasn't  in  my  bag  at  that 
minute,  you  don't  think  right,  that's  all. 

Dad  said  a  few  fatherly  things  to  me  be- 
fore I  went,  like  the  all-round  trump  he 
is,  ajid  I  was  glad  to  have  him.  I  could 
stand  that  all  right.  But  I  couldn't  have 
borne  anything  from  Mother — not  then — 
and  she  knew  it.  How  did  she  know? 
That's  what  gets  me.  But  she  did,  the 
way  she's  always  seemed  to  know  things 
without  being  told.  She's  that  sort,  you 
see. 

They  all  went  down  to  the  station  with 
me,  in  the  seven-passenger,  with  Dad 

driving.       We  didn't  talk  much  on  the 
26 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

way.  I  tried  not  to  see  the  familiar  old 
streets.  I  hadn't  told  anybody  what 
train  I  was  going  on,  but  some  of  my  old 
friends  found  out  and  came  down  just  the 
same,  and  were  there  in  a  bunch  to  send 
me  off.  They  hurried  up  to  us,  and  shook 
hands  and  jollied  me,  and  everything  was 
lively.  When  the  train  came  in  we  all 
went  together  to  it,  and  then  I  saw  the 
boys  stand  back  and  look  at  Mother.  I 
don't  know  what  they  expected  to  see,  but 
I'm  pretty  sure  it  wasn't  what  they  did 
see. 

It  was  evening,  but  instead  of  putting 
on  an  awfully  stunning  fur-bordered  coat 
over  the  things  she'd  worn  to  dinner,  as 
she  usually  does  when  she  goes  out  in  the 
car  at  night,  Mother'd  taken  the  trouble 
to  go  back  to  the  tailored  suit  and  little 
close  hat  she  wears  in  the  street  and  for 
27 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

driving.  She  knows  I  like  her  best  that 
way — and  I  certainly  did  that  night.  I 
can't  tell  you  why,  except  that  the  things 
we've  always  done  together  have  been 
mostly  in  street-and-sports  clothes  - 
tramping  and  motoring  and  golfing — and 
so  forth.  She  always  seems  more  like  a 
sort  of  good  chum  dressed  like  that  than 
when  she  puts  on  trailers  and  silky  things 
— though,  my  word!  if  you  don't  think 
she's  a  peach  in  evening  dress  you  never 
saw  her.  Her  neck  and  shoulders — but 
that's  neither  here  nor  there  just  now. 
The  thing  I'm  telling  is  that  she'd  gone 
back  to  the  clothes  that  make  her  look  like 
a  jolly  girl,  and  I  knew  she'd  done  it  so  I 
could  remember  her  that  way. 

It  wasn't  so  hard  then  to  go.    It  was  all 
over  in  a  minute.      Nobody  hung  round 
my  neck.     Even  when  it  came  to  Mother, 
28 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

whom  of  course  I  always  leave  till  the  last, 
she  just  gave  me  one  good  kiss,  with 
her  hands  on  my  shoulders,  and  then  I 
jumped  on  board.  The  train  didn't  linger 
long,  for  which  I  was  mighty  glad.  When  it 
pulled  out,  and  I  looked  back  at  them  all 
standing  there — the  whole  bunch  of  them 
— suddenly  I  couldn't  see  them  awfully 
well.  But  I  gave  a  big  wink  that  cleared 
my  eyes,  and  saw  that  Mother  was  smil- 
ing, just  as  she  always  does,  exactly  as  if 
I'd  been  going  back  to  prep-school  after 
my  first  vacation  home.  It  wasn't  a 
teary  smile,  either — it  was  her  very  best. 
.  .  .  I  see  it  now,  sometimes,  when  I'm 
just  dropping  off  to  sleep. 

I've  thought  about  that  send-off  a  lot 

since  I   got  away.     I've   realized   since, 

more  than  I  did  then,  that  it  must  have 

taken  just  sheer  pluck  on  all  their  parts  to 

29 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

see  it  through  as  they  did.  Of  course,  my 
young  sisters  couldn't  understand  all  it 
meant,  but  my  kid  brother's  read  a  heap, 
as  I  easily  found  out  when  we  talked 
about  it,  and  I  know  he  had  to  do  a  few 
swallowings  of  the  throat  on  the  side  not 
to  show  how  he  felt  more  than  he  did.  As 
for  Grandfather  and  Grandmother,  they 
went  through  the  Civil  War,  and  they 
knew,  better  than  any  of  us,  what  might 
be  ahead.  Dad — well — Dad  has  wonder- 
ful control  of  himself  always,  and  I  should 
be  surprised  if  I  saw  his  heart  on  his 
sleeve  at  any  time,  yet  I  knew  perfectly 
that  he  felt  the  whole  thing  tremendously. 
He  was  banking  on  doing  his  bit  in  the 
Home  Defence  League,  and  the  Red  Cross, 
and  everywhere  else  he  could  get  his 
hand  in,  and  I  could  tell  well  enough 

that  he  was  aching  to  be  in  active  service. 

30 


THE      WHISTLING      MOTHER 

But  after  all,  it's  the  mothers,  I  think, 
who  do  the  biggest  giving  when  their  sons 
go  to  war.  I  suspect  it's  what  they  put  into 
their  sons  that  stands  for  the  real  stuff  in 
the  crisis.  I  don't  think  there  are  many 
weak  mothers,  like  Hoofy  Gilbert's,  even 
among  the  ones  who  are  invalids.  But  I 
wish  more  of  them  understood  what  it  is  to 
a  fellow  to  have  his  mother  hold  her  head 
up! 


THE  COUNTRY   LIFE   PRESS 
GARDEN   CITY,   N.   Y. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-8,'66(G5530s4)458 


N?  486906 

Richmond,  G.L.S, 
The  whistling 
mother • 


PS3535 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


